I recently visited Cumbria, my Fathers home.
It had been a while and I was looking forward to it.
To being where his Spirit resides.
I had thought this may be my home in the future.
Somewhere I could lay my hat and finally arrive.
It was somewhere I could bank on being in my old age
I still have very fond memories of walks in the hills, picnics by beautiful lakes and…well, just happiness.
It’s funny how your memory does that.
Not lie exactly but bends the truth.
I was living in the past on the way up there. Only remembering the good stuff.
I forgot those times weren’t always great.
And in my need to connect to him I forgot this wasn’t my place after all.
It was just a place, a feeling, a memory. Part of Dad that I longed to be close to.
It made me sad because after 5 years I believed the sharpness of my grief had subsided.
But this felt like goodbye.
When I visited him, where his ashes are scattered. I asked out loud if it was alright for me to leave. I definitely heard a distinct “Stay a bit longer kid” whispering in the wailing wind swirling around me.
I cried. Sobbed to be leaving him. But I knew it was time to go.
As I sat after my walk with a cuppa and looked out to sea, I saw us all laughing and playing on the beach below.
Another good one.
They’re the best kind.
So is it ever goodbye? Really?
You can read more of me on Medium